


Worn Out For Good

by alexiel_neesan



Series: Survie [1]
Category: DCU
Genre: Blood, Depressing, Depression, Gen, Injury, Post-Apocalypse, Wordcount: 500-1.000, urban survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-26
Updated: 2012-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-31 18:58:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiel_neesan/pseuds/alexiel_neesan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Tim carefully smoothed the sweater over his knee. The single hurricane lamp was barely enough to see the edges of the latest holes, to see the latest frayed threads. Rain and wind was pelting at the canvas of their tent, drafts filtering in, mud as the ground.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worn Out For Good

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> Title: "Worn Out For Good"  
> Fandom: DCU/Batman  
> Rating: PG  
> Characters: Tim Drake, Jason Todd. (Pamela Isley)
> 
> Summary: for the_protagonist: _Worn out for good. Jason, Tim (I am inherently predictable)._ Takes place in an hypothetical time when another No Man's Land hit Gotham, where strange alliances have to be made and Dick, Damian, Steph and many other just dropped out of sight.

Tim carefully smoothed the sweater over his knee. The single hurricane lamp was barely enough to see the edges of the latest holes, to see the latest frayed threads. Rain and wind was pelting at the canvas of their tent, drafts filtering in, mud as the ground.

He smoothed the fabric some more, slowly; it was more rag than fabric now, more holes and lost hopes, a physical testament to “never giving up”. He only had the one needle and roll of thread. It was only a matter of knowing which hole was the worst, which one would take the whole piece of cloth apart if allowed to sit still...

He sighed and bent down, ignoring winces and pains, to take his boots off. He crossed his legs up on the cot, still not listening to the tinges shooting up his nerves, and tucked his feet under the scratchy blanket, willing them to warm up. His boots fell to the side with a quiet squelch of mud. There was still not enough light to see properly –too late at night, and too far into the dark season to see much more during the day– but he zeroed on a spot. It was the seam at his shoulder, where his pack and bandolier rubbed continuously. It would be better to have a piece of fabric to repair the damages; and while he was at it, he could also wish for a new sweater, a dry place to sleep in, no more rain, to be warm and to have enough to eat... He closed his eyes and sighed once more. Closing his eyes made little difference in light.

He stilled and opened his ears after the first length of thread failed to make a difference in the garment in his hands. A noise came in– not the howling of the wind, not the canvas flapping, not the rain. He quickly darted a hand under the covers, his finger nestling on the handle of his rifle, one on the trigger guard, his eyes wide open as if it would help him hear. The noise didn’t repeat itself. Tim took the rifle in both hands and slide down the cot, the cold mud seeping through his socks.

A rasp, at the front of the tent. “ ‘t’s me.”

Tim slithered further in, canon trained on the barest hint of the source of the voice. A sigh– it was barely heard over the wind and rain, over Tim’s quietly beating heart.

“Okay, ‘in blackest day, in darkest night, no evil shall escape my sight’. Hal’s a jackass, Kyle’s an ass, Guy’s fun and John doesn’t talk enough.”

Tim didn’t lower his rifle, but disarmed the alert system and the explosives wiring the opening of the tent.

“Damn it Tim, you don’t need to go-”

“Yes, I do.”

Jason raised his hands over his head. His plastic poncho hadn’t been enough to keep the worst of the mud and rain off him. His hair was stuck to his face, almost hiding the spattering of scratches and scars from shrapnel on his cheeks –almost hiding the fatigue and the lines around his eyes. Eyes that narrowed when he took Tim’s lack of shoes and sweater in. “Fuck, Tim-” He quickly shut up at the glare –tired, exhausted, worn out– the younger man gave him.

Tim let him come in once he was satisfied with his inspection.

“On your cot, you stupid–” There wasn’t much more Jason could say. Would say. Nothing much more he could do, nothing much more Tim could. “Let me see how badly you got yourself this time–”

Tim tried to bat the larger hands away, “I’m _fine_ , stop it–”

Jason sighed, uncovering the deep scratches, the bruises, the bandages falling away. He broke the lull that had fell over them like an exhausted breath. “‘lost their track. I don’t think they left the city.”

Tim looked down, at the hands barely warmer than the air they were sharing on his heated skin, at the hands that belonged to a man he had once loved, once looked up to, once hated, once helped, once been helped by–

And then further down, at the mud that had been a park, and maybe a path, in a city whole and untouched, in a city once called Gotham, in a city that was not a succession of ragtag bands and hollow-eyed survivors forgotten by the rest of the world, a world that was just as worn out and exhausted as them.

Jason’s hands slipped inside his jacket –still thick, and the arm was painted with the colors of the Bat, but Tim knew the clothes under it, the man under it, was running ragged, full of holes. “Pam says she’s near synthesizing what we need. ‘d need more light,” and he got two tiny vials, green and sloshy, extended them to Tim.

Pam. Poison Ivy. Who knew what Jason owed her for that –that being painkillers. Maybe it was part of her and Jason’s arrangement– but Tim had kept clear of that, had kept clear of the few metahumans. Jason handled that, played messenger, sometimes knocked heads.

There was so much to do. So little of them.

Tim blinked at the rough canvas above his head. Jason had taken his wet socks off, had dried his feet as well as he could –and Tim had gone somewhere during that time; that was why Jason kept insisting he was better off staying at Base Camp.

Tim briefly came back when Jason climbed into the cot, wondering if his sweater and thread were somewhere dry. Jason wasn’t warm enough, wasn’t solid enough behind him.

Were they even real anymore, full of holes and as substantial as the clothes hanging off their shoulders? Did it even matter anymore?

The rain didn’t stop, the wind a last moan as the light died down.

/end.  



End file.
